Deus in Machina (a Warhammer 40K-setting inspired LitRPG)

The vision had lasted a heartbeat, maybe two, but it left Angar shaken, his leonine palms slick inside his gauntlets, and his heart hammering in his chest.

He didn't understand what was going on. He only thought Sulfuron women were truly beautiful. And this woman was old, at least comparatively, having about a decade on him.

But, even with the vision done and over, the feelings they caused still had a hold of him.

The crowd's fervor, everything, it all felt distant, insignificant compared to the pull of her gaze and his overwhelming desire.

His life was war. He was afraid of nothing. Nothing except this, whatever this was, as it was a battle both his body and mind desperately wanted him to lose, and lose more than anything, as both body and mind agreed it'd be the greatest of victories. A victory more important than any other.

His unworthy eyes even being allowed to look upon her was a great victory.

She began to move towards him, like in the vision, but not sauntering, primly, her hat and veil still covering her hair and face. It made the hairs on his neck prickle.

The townsfolk parted for her, their reverent nods and warm smiles unchanged.

Her steps were measured, her posture demure, but every motion seemed to echo that vision, each sway of her hips, each tilt of her head, a promise full of glorious sin.

She stopped a few paces away, close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume, something floral and sharp, cutting through the stink of the crowded peasants.

"Sir Knight," she said in a soft and clear voice that made his knees weak. Her eyes never left his, even through the helm's visor, as if she could see straight into his soul. "I pray for your help. My home lies heavy with shadows. Malignant spirits linger where my husband and children once stood. Will you lend your strength to purify it and protect me?"

Angar's throat tightened. He wanted to scream out a prayer of thanks. It was like God was rewarding him directly.

He wanted nothing more than to be alone with her. He opened his mouth to shout yes, but his voice stuck, and he couldn't remember how to speak.

His mind still reeled from the images and the feeling of her touch, her whispered name, the forbidden heat.

He was a Crusader, forged for war, a bulwark against sin and the unholy, but desire coiled too tightly around him, pulling him toward her like a trained puppy on a leash.

Since he'd forgotten how to talk, his gauntleted hand twitched, itching to somehow communicate his desire to help, but wouldn't move. He'd follow her into Hell itself to spend time alone with her. She had to know. He had to tell her somehow.

Before he could figure out how to speak and yell out yes, or communicate in another way, Rusak clanked forward in his exosuit, his eyes filled with zealous fervor.

"Widow Fitch!" he boomed out. "I've been told of your plight, Child. Your dire need of a competent ritualist to perform a House Blessing and Benediction. I know a few cleansing rituals too, and you've probably been personally cursed. I'll see to all this myself."

Widow Fitch's smile faltered as a flash of something, possibly disappointment, crossed her flawless features. Her eyes flicked from Angar to Rusak, then back, lingering with a promise that made Angar's pulse stutter.

"Brother," she said, her tone softer now, almost pleading, but laced with a strange certainty. "Your zeal is a blessing. Come, Brother, Sir Knight," beckoning them both.

Rusak's eyes narrowed, and his tattoos creased on his face as he studied her, then Angar. "No need to pull this Knight from his duty," he said with a voice brimming with resolve. "I'm a Hierarch, Child. My rituals will scour any evil, no matter how vile. Come, let's you and I see to your home."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He turned with exosuit grinding as he started toward the town. Widow Fitch hesitated as her gaze locked with Angar's again. Her lips parted into a smile that split her face, filled with perfect teeth and promise.

"Brother, wait," she called in a tone tinged with urgency. "We can't be alone together. It's improper. And these spirits are fierce, steeped in unholy power. They've already taken my beloved husband and our four children, drained their life essence, leaving only dried husks. I'd feel much safer with this Knight's presence."

If she had four children, she'd tithed four, as the first was always tithed. Eight children by mid-twenties meant she birthed one a year. It wasn't just the cultists that were prolific in these towns.

Rusak paused and his broad shoulders tensed. He glanced back, his zealot's gaze flicking between the widow and Angar, as if weighing a hidden sin. "You're right, Child," he conceded with a grudging tone. "Sister Amnat!" he barked, summoning the disfigured Exactor. "Join us, for propriety's sake, maintaining this widow's good name."

A storm of desire raged within Angar's chest. He wanted to follow Widow Fitch, to stand in her home, preferably alone, but that ship had sailed.

Even now, he wanted to go more than anything, to spend more time with her, but he still couldn't figure out how to speak, never mind walk.

As the widow, Rusak, and Sister Amnat moved toward the town, Angar stood frozen, his fists clenched, the vision's heat still burning in his veins, his heart pounding, scolding himself as he tried to run after them but remained stuck.

He breathed heavily through his helm, each exhale a battle to reclaim his discipline and mind.

Slowly, the overwhelming feeling began to fade, the widow's perfume replaced by the unwashed stench of cultists.

In time, voices began piercing his haze. A family crowded before him, speaking.

The mother said, "They're Heretics, Sir Knight," as the father nodded. "The Kunarch family. Every last one of them. The next farm over from ours, and vile sinners! They wail at midnight, spilling animal blood for demons, we know it!" Her children nodded with wide eyes as their prayer beads clacked like chattering teeth.

Angar shook his head, the motion sluggish, like shaking off a dream. He tried to focus, but the family's words blurred into meaningless static.

"We'll purge this evil," he told them. He took out a pad and pen, marking the Kunarchs as Heretics.

They weren't, but they'd be exorcised all the same. After what he saw in the cities of even these small, fringe worlds, that these people conjured images of Heretics merely sacrificing animals was quaint and spoke of their rural innocence.

Another family pressed in with accusations of stolen crops, whispered curses, and shadows in windows. Angar listened, jotting down names, his mind half elsewhere.

As the third family approached, Hidetada's mechanical voice crackled in his comms. "Get to the shuttle. We've found a coven of Heretics in the mountains. Speed is of the essence."

The order snapped Angar's thoughts into focus. He doubted these Heretics would give a worthy challenge, but anything would be better than this.

He handed his pad off to the Exactor as he passed her, running toward the shuttle.

It was ready to go with engines running. Angar hauled himself into the cargo bay with his armor clanking against the metal floor.

As the back hatch slowly hissed shut, the shuttle lurched upward, accelerating with a force that nearly dropped him out the still closing door.

The vessel bucked violently as it breached the dome's field and gravity shifted, sending him slamming into the roof.

Angar steadied himself, then looked out the viewport slit, and his brows furrowed in confusion. They were blazing away from the mountains, not toward them. Unless Hidetada had found the coven in a different range?

"ETA to the coven?" he barked into Hidetada's private channel.

Silence. No response, only the engines' drone. He asked on the operator's channel and waited. Only silence again. He tried the channel the longshoreman used. Nothing.

He shoved through the cramped bay and pounded a gauntleted fist against the pilot's partition. "ETA?" he shouted. No reply. He banged and shouted again, this time loud enough his voice echoed in the metal chamber.

The longshoreman still didn't answer. The shuttle sped on its unwavering course.

A minute or two later, a searing blue-white flash erupted through the bay's narrow viewport slit, blinding him even through his helm's filters.

The shuttle shuddered, caught in a shockwave that rattled its hull, the bulkheads groaning as turbulence tossed Angar against the walls.

He scrambled to the slit and peered out.

Rhiginia was gone. A spire of plasma and ash churned where the town had stood, the new crater's edges crackling with residual energy, glowing molten red in the crater's heart.

Vaporized. Even the mountain's flank was sheared away.

Debris rained across the surrounding plain. Thousands of embers winked out like dying stars.

The shuttle's shielding had spared them, but only just.

A secondary explosion rocked the center of the crater, this one making a small mushroom cloud, or small compared to the size of the crater it appeared within.

Rage bloomed in Angar's chest. He was done with these games and being left in the dark. "What in the Hell was that about?" he barked into the comms, fury causing his voice to tremble.

No reply came, only the hum of the shuttle's engines as it sped away, leaving the cratered ruin behind.